<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>To Make Your Heart Remember Me by a_static_world</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994671">To Make Your Heart Remember Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world'>a_static_world</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Getting Together, M/M, Merlin is a musician, Merthur - Freeform, Pining, Song: I Want to Write You a Song (One Direction), because I said so, but not for very long, ehehehe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:47:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,271</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994671</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee, Arthur had quickly decided, was one of the best things to happen since he’d died.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Pendragon &amp; Original Characters, Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), past Gwen/Arthur Pendragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>255</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>To Make Your Heart Remember Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a very self-indulgent fic, because it is my birthday. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Coffee, Arthur quickly decided, was one of the best things to happen since he’d died. The others, in no particular order, were the internet, central heating and cooling (not that there was much to go around in London, but still), and music. Arthur had never cared much for music...before. But maybe it was because it was never this <em> accessible </em> . In the old days, one had to wait for months before a wandering bard or singer came to make their presence known at court, and even then it had been all the same rubbish: how great Uther was slash had been, how great Arthur is slash was, how vile and wicked the curse of sorcery upon the land, and on and on until Arthur’s brain ached at even the <em> thought </em>of Godric the Gleeful. </p><p>    Anyway. </p><p>    Arthur loved music, yes, and this- <em> phone </em>held more of it than he could ever listen to. Despite his past...experiences, however, Arthur especially loved live singing; the raw, uncut sounds of someone pouring their heart out on the street corner had moved him to tears more than once, and he’d tipped each and every time with the money that just seemed to appear in his pockets. It had earned him strange looks from passers-by, to be sure, but the delight on the faces of the performers far outweighed any others. Arthur found himself entering hole-in-the-wall taverns and cafes just to hear someone with a mediocre voice and a guitar caterwaul for an hour or two. He supposed it was soothing, like when Merlin used to hum while polishing his armor. </p><p>    But Merlin was too big a hole in his heart to think about, so Arthur simply didn’t. </p><p>    Eventually he got himself a job at one of these cafes, pouring hot milk over meh-quality coffee and getting lost in the voice of whoever decided to pay the £30 for an hour of stage time and the guitar that hung on the wall. His hands, calloused still from centuries-old swordsmanship, collected new burns and scars as he learned the trade. Arthur found himself, oddly, relishing the pain and pressure of his new job, barista-ing not unlike a battle in terms of nasty opponents (or, as he’d been told to call them, <em> customers </em>) and high-speed, spur-of-the-moment thinking. He didn’t need the money; he’d awoken in a fully-furnished apartment, with a bank card, a phone, and several documents that were absolutely impossible to read, but from which he gathered that he had inherited a great amount of money and owned everything in his apartment. Bit of a shocker, really. </p><p>    And so several months passed; Arthur joined a gym, took up boxing, got roped into teaching a self-defense class on his Thursdays off of work. He moved through a world that was as different as the one he came from as it possibly could be, and yet he found himself adjusting. He went home and cried, the first time he’d called one of his students <em> Leon, </em>and again when someone named Percival came through the cafe. But eventually, though their faces remained burned into his memory, the hurt faded, the wounds scarring over into something twice as strong and ever less painful. </p><p>    It was one such Friday, after a Thursday class that had left Arthur with what he’d begun to call <em> the bads </em> , when everything seemed too much, and it was all he could do to not Google his friend’s names and cry. He’d taken a sleeping pill ( <em> Pills, Gaius, are much easier to swallow than tinctures) </em>and passed out. </p><p>    And, subsequently, overslept his 11:00 AM shift. </p><p>    Oh, shit. Arthur, somehow, had never been late in his <em> life, </em> as a result of his knights and father refusing to be lenient with him and a stubborn nursemaid when he was five years old drilling into him that <em> kings are not late, young Pendragon </em>. So it was 11:23 when Arthur strode into the cafe, looking (and feeling) like hell on wheels, but prepared to work nonetheless. He tied on his apron, donned his regulation cap over his rapidly-lengthening hair, and got to work, just barely noticing the dark-haired man setting up his stage in the corner. It was forty-five minutes of grinding, pressing, pouring, smiling, nodding busywork before the man in the corner began to pluck at the sticker-embellished guitar he’d tugged down from the wall.</p><p>    Arthur’s mouth went dry. He knew those fingers. Knew that melody.</p><p>    The fates, it seemed, were not going to be kind to him today.</p><p>    “I’m going on break,” he announced, loudly and to no-one in particular, as he and Brenn were the only ones working the counter. His apron was suddenly too tight, his hat squeezing his head like the helmets used to. He strode into the back and immediately began ripping the blasted things off his body, his breathing becoming more and more frantic by the second. </p><p>    “Lynn,” Arthur wheezed, grabbing the arm of the woman who owned the cafe (and could usually be found crocheting in the back, if you needed her).</p><p>    “Who is that man out there. <em> Who is he </em>.”</p><p>    “Ca’m down, son. Yeh look like ye’ve seen a ghost. Some man off the street, called ‘imself Emrys, said ‘e had a song to sing and that ‘e’d pay for the space. Why, ‘e given you trouble in the past?” Lynn cast an appraising eye over Arthur’s shaking, pale, thoroughly panicked form, seemingly internally deciding that she’d go out and tell the man to leave, if Arthur asked her to. She could spare £30 here and there. </p><p>    “No, no. It’s fine. It’s just...I think I’ve met him before. That’s all.” </p><p>    “‘S long ‘s you’re sure, Arthur. If he gives you trouble come’n get me and I’ll drive him out, I will.”</p><p>    Arthur only exhaled and nodded, heartbeat slowing as he retied his apron and settled his cap back on his head. It was a coincidence, surely. No reason to get all panicky about it, plenty of people named Emrys around. With fingers like that, and hair like he remembered, albeit slightly greyer. It would be fine. He heard the man-<em> Emrys </em>-start to play as he breathed deeply once more, pasting a smile on his face and emerging from the back room like his whole world hadn’t just been knocked off its axis. Brenn smiled tightly at him, their hands overwhelmed as customers poured in the open doors, no doubt due to the striking figure of the man who remained bent over the guitar, murmuring phrases and playing chords so haunting they seemed to cut each and every patron to the bone. </p><p>    And then he began to <em> sing </em> . And Arthur was no longer in Camelot Coffee, he was in <em> Camelot </em> Camelot, <em> his </em> Camelot, with his Merlin singing to them beside the fire. </p><p>    <em> I want to write you a song, </em></p><p>
  <em>    one as beautiful as you are sweet, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>    with just a hint of pain </em>
</p><p>
  <em>    for the feeling that I get when you are gone </em>
</p><p>
  <em>    I want to write you a song. </em>
</p><p>   The man looked up then, finally, <em> finally </em> , and Arthur Pendragon would know those eyes anywhere, any <em> time </em> . Crushing blue, like the forget-me-nots Gwen had once threaded into his hair, and keener than a whetted blade. But this man, this <em> Emrys </em>, only smiled at Arthur, who was having a fairly goddamn difficult time seeing through his tears, and bent his head again towards the guitar. </p><p>
  <em>     I want to write you a song </em>
</p><p>
  <em>     one to make your heart remember me </em>
</p><p>
  <em>     so any time I'm gone </em>
</p><p>
  <em>     you can listen to my voice and sing along </em>
</p><p>
  <em>     I want to write you a song. </em>
</p><p>    The crowd, having accumulated in the small shop, applauded loudly, many sniffling or outright sobbing, tipped heavily, and dispersed quickly, almost as if...</p><p>    “Fancy seeing you here, clotpole.”</p><p>    And then Merlin was pressing his forehead on Arthur’s, stubbled cheeks wet with tears and he was<em> laughing </em> , the git, and oh, <em> gods </em> how Arthur had missed him.</p><p>    “Do you really think,” he whispered, aware that Brenn was doing their best to ignore them and was desperately trying to keep Lynn in the back. </p><p>    “Do you really think I’d need a song to remember you, dollophead?”</p><p>    And then Merlin was kissing Arthur, fiercely, desperately, like he’d been waiting his whole life for it. <em> Welcome back </em> , it said. <em> I’ve found you. Welcome home.  </em></p><p>    Arthur found himself kissing back without a second thought.</p><p>Merlin’s hand, the lithe fingers Arthur had remembered so well, wandered up to the back of his head, stroking through his hair for the-</p><p>    “Still there, eh?” Merlin teased, murmuring against Arthur’s lips, fingernail scraping lightly over the patch of missing hair Arthur had sustained from years of consistent helmet-wearing and head trauma. </p><p>    “Why else d’you think I’ve grown my hair so long? Can’t go around with a bloody bald patch in the back of my head, now can I?” Arthur pulled back, indignant, but twined his hand into Merlin’s all the same. </p><p>    Merlin hummed in response, lowering his eyes to their joined hands and grinning.  </p><p>    “I,” he started. “Am going to go across the street and wait until your shift is done, and then, I swear to you, I will come back. I’ve distracted you enough already.” </p><p>    Fear licked up Arthur’s spine, hot and thick like molten steel. He hadn’t fully let himself realize how <em> lonely </em> he was until just now. Merlin couldn’t leave, he couldn’t. Not again. </p><p>    Thankfully, Arthur was saved from begging by Lynn bursting out of the back room, Brenn apologetically following behind. </p><p>    “Take t’day off, Arthur. You deserve it. And boy,” she wagged her finger menacingly at Merlin.  </p><p>     “If you ever leave him again, I will hunt you down.”</p><p>    Merlin had the grace to look appropriately terrified by this 4’11, 65 year old Welsh woman who, Arthur suspected, could take old Merlin in a fair fight. New Merlin was surprisingly...thicker, like he’d been training. New Arthur appreciated it, eyes roving over him as they walked hand-in-hand to Arthur’s flat. It wasn’t a bad look on him, his broad shoulders and muscled thighs carrying the weight of his (truly delicious, especially in the fitted-black-tee-and-worn-jeans combo he wore) body well, with surprising ease and comfort in a world Arthur had just begun to understand. </p><p>    They barely made it two steps in the door before Merlin had Arthur pinned against the wall, one hand under his head to keep it from knocking and oh, yeah. Arthur could get used to this. But there was time for all of <em> that </em> later. When they eventually came up for air, Arthur tipped his head against Merlin’s.</p><p>    “Talk to me.”</p><p>    They ended up in Arthur’s bed, with his head in Merlin’s lap, Merlin softly stroking his hair. Arthur closed his eyes, allowed himself to lean into it, to feel safe and protected for once. </p><p>    “So, <em> Mer</em>lin, did you also wake up in the middle of nowhere recognizable with everything you need to survive this...place?”</p><p>    Arthur felt Merlin’s hands still in his hair, the air around them changing from content to tense in a heartbeat. </p><p>    “Arthur, I...I never died. I’ve been- been waiting, for you, I guess, for you to return. Our destinies still lie together, and you were gone and I wasn’t and Gwen was queen, and so I just-left. Something kept me alive, kept me going. The promise of your return <em> alone </em> stopped me from going mad. I’ve seen every continent, learned the languages, watched the world change so quickly it seemed every bit as far from Camelot as it could be. <em> And I have never stopped loving you.</em>” </p><p>    Arthur’s eyes flew open. With all the practiced ease of a knight-turned-boxer, he flipped up and around smoothly onto Merlin’s lap. He carefully, so carefully took the other man’s tearstained face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over Merlin’s cheekbones, cut harder and finer from years and <em> years </em> of life, a life that he did not ask for and yet lived anyway. For <em> him. </em>For the hope, faint as it was, that he would one day, by some miracle, return to him. </p><p>    So Arthur kissed Merlin, trying to pour every ounce of emotion he felt into it, trying to pour nearly two <em> thousand </em> years of love and apologies and grief into something so simple. He had loved Guinevere, truly, deeply, but it was never like this. Merlin was steadfast and solid and yes, he was crying into their kissing, but Arthur found that he didn’t mind one bit. At the end of the day, Merlin was his, and he was Merlin’s. No questions, not anymore, not when fate had so clearly intervened on their behalf.</p><p>    “You <em> waited </em> for me. You knew, didn’t you, what would happen. That I would die and you would live, and yet you <em> kept living</em>. There are...very few, who would do that.”</p><p>    Merlin studied Arthur’s face, angling his head as tears continued to spill from his eyes. He smiled, soft and sweet in that way of his. The way that had always made Arthur’s hands itch to touch, a way that used to scare him, way back when. Then his smile split into a grin, big and goofy and oh, boy-</p><p>    “Well, I’d say I’m probably the <em> only </em>one who can boast about having waited for King Arthur for <em> literally </em> the whole time he was gone. You can only imagine how glad I was for a break from ‘Merlin, polish my mail,’ and ‘Merlin, sew my shirt,’ and ‘Merlin-’”</p><p>    “Okay, very funny. Care to step on the moment a bit more, sweetheart, or would you, in your infinite wisdom, care to teach me how to <em> Netflix</em>?” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i can’t stop myself usually i try to space ships out but ajajaja not this time<br/>gracias a mis amores anoddconstellationofthoughts and evangelily for helping me cathart through the emotion that is BBC merlin</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>